Zian's dagger found its mark—not in Nyxara's borrowed flesh, but in the golden light pouring from the student's cracked ribs. The moment steel met divinity, the world *shuddered*.
Nyxara's scream wasn't sound, but memory.
Zian's vision whited out as the fallen angel's essence flooded into her—
*—A sunlit throne room. Herself in silver armor, standing guard as the God received his Twelve. Nyxara's blade flashing not toward their creator, but toward Zian's exposed back—*
*—The pain of wings being severed. The God's cry as he threw himself between them—*
*—Darkness offering a bargain as she bled out: "Serve me, and you'll never lose again."*
Zian wrenched back to the present just in time to see Nyxara's host collapse, their body disintegrating into golden dust. The victory tasted like ash.
Across the courtyard, Rin emerged from the shattered archives, clutching a tome that pulsed with faint light. "It's not adding up," she breathed. "The texts say the God's Twelve were—"
Kaen's shadow clamped over her mouth before she could finish.
"Careful, little scholar." His voice was velvet over steel. "Some truths break minds before they're meant to be known."
Zian looked down at her hands. The pact mark had spread up her arms, forming intricate patterns like *feathers dipped in ink*.
Somewhere beyond the bloodied moon, a chorus of wings stirred.